


rust and stardust

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (and Catelyn is FURIOUS), (but he's crusty so no one wants him), Age Difference, Alpha Ramsay Bolton, Alpha Robb Stark, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Jon Snow didn't go to The Wall, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Theon Greyjoy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy and Confident!Theon Greyjoy, Intersex Omegas, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Married Robb Stark/Theon Greyjoy, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, No Fire God Nonsense, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Older Omega/Younger Alpha, Omega Jon Snow, Omega Theon Greyjoy, POV Alternating, Ramsay is His Own Warning, Ramsay is Theon and Domeric's son, Robb Lives, Robb Stark is King in the North, Roose Bolton is His Own Warning, Roose Bolton is thirsty af, Stannis the Mannis, Theon Greyjoy is Queen in the North, Theon is Ramsay's Mother, Tommen Baratheon is a Gift, Top Robb Stark, War of the Five Kings, Will I Ever Write A Fic Where Robb Is Not A Lovesick Fool?, meaning he's slightly less psycho, no red wedding, probably not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-08-20 10:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16553714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Prime young Alpha Robb would rather not marry one of Walder Frey's daughters. Their bloodline is weak, and he needs a strong bride to produce strong Alpha sons. Good thing there's a beautiful unmarried Omega stubbornly travelling South with his banners, despite the risks. Robb decides it's good idea to pretend he's already engaged to Theon Greyjoy, the vicious and enigmatic widow of Domeric Bolton, who happens to be Robb's childhood best friend.Theon has been happy as the de facto Lady of the Dreadfort since his irritating husband died. He's NOT pleased when Robb announces their apparent betrothal. He considers the Young Wolf more of an annoying little brother than a potential mate. But he'll take the chance to lord his new status over the North. Convincing his son of the plan's merits? Well, that's another kettle of fish altogether.Stannis might be an omega, but he's still the heir to the throne, no matter how his brother schemes. Tommen just wants to rule his small seat with his wife in peace, but the Seven Kingdoms keep dragging him into their issues.Mostly book ages but Robb and Jon are 16, Theon is 25, Ramsay is 11.





	1. (Prologue) Theon & Robb

**Author's Note:**

> _The only thing worth writing about is the human heart in conflict with itself._  
>  -William Faulkner

The drip was incessant. Four seconds of blessed silence, and then the smash of water, sounding like the branch of a tree cracking under the weight of the fucking snow. Theon’s blunt fingernails jabbed painfully into his palms, as he counted the heartbeats between droplets smacking into the window-shelf. There was no other sound in the gloomy room. Domeric didn’t even snore, which was hardly surprising, when he thought on it; the man seldom made a sound he was not required to. And to add further insult, Theon was cold as an Other’s tit, despite the rich furs he was stuffed underneath.

Winterfell had been bad enough. Cold enough to freeze a man’s nose clean off, not that the fucking Northmen would ever admit it. They seemed to relish the frigid wind and snow, crazy as they were. Despite his conflicting feelings towards the Starks, Theon longed for the hot springs of Winterfell like a direwolf had ripped into his heart; and it refused to mend. It was stupid. Winterfell was not his home. Pyke was the only home he had ever known. And yet when he closed his eyes, he was plunged into that warm lagoon again, encased in its scorching embrace. He was swimming, uninterrupted, unbothered by the stupid Northmen, all except for one, the little red-headed boy with eyes as blue as the sky on a cloudless day…

 _Crack!_ The fall of water tore through his dream, rending it apart as smooth and clean as an arrowhead.

With a huff of frustration, Theon threw the furs off his bare skin, quickly yanking on his discarded breeches, boots and a thick outdoor cloak before he froze to death. Then he stomped dramatically to the window, and pressed his palms against it, trying to see where the noise was coming from. He attempted to rattle the pane, but the solid glass refused to move.

 _If this tiny arrow-shaft of a window wasn’t smaller than Domeric’s prick,_ Theon decided, _I would have considered smashing it with a rock, and throwing myself out, just to be free of that bloody sound!_

Turning away in disgust, Theon crossed the room without care. A malicious part of him was hoping Domeric would be roused from sleep by the sound of him stalking out. But the ignorant man slept on, as per usual. Theon spared his husband a quick look, feeling a stab of guilt for his unfavourable comparison of the window to his anatomy. In truth, Domeric was rather generously sized, as all Alphas were.

 _But it doesn’t keep him from being a cold cunt, just like his father, the Lord of the Leeches,_  Theon reasoned.

If he could not sleep, then Theon was determined to remain irritated. He shoved open the door which lead to the chambers that should have been his. If Domeric had been more civilised, that is, and did not insist on them sharing a bed each night. But instead of a Lady’s Chambers, the room had been repurposed as a nursery for their son.

The room was cold as fuck, despite the banked fire merry in the hearth. A useless, ugly nursemaid had fallen asleep in the rocking chair beside it. For a mad moment, Theon worried that his son had frozen to death, turned to solid stone under these icy conditions. But when he leaned into the crandle, Theon saw that his plump little babe was wide awake, and wiggling. The boy’s gaze immediately snapped to his mother, greedily drinking him in with those disconcerting, ice-chip blue eyes. Theon always expected the boy to be sound asleep, quiet as he was, but it was never the case. Ramsay was just a quiet babe it seemed. He rarely cried, or groused, or made any noise at all. But he was always watching. Staring really; only the gods knew at what.

When heavy with child and picturing the babe, Theon had imagined the boy would take after him. Even if he turned out to be an Alpha. A strong boy; with green eyes and dark Greyjoy features. Theon wasn’t displeased by the look of him, exactly. He had brown curls, and was certainly fat and healthy, as a babe should be. But his eyes… they were Roose’s eyes. Paler than Domeric’s, and far more arresting. Haunting, one might even say.

It was ridiculous to be afraid of a babe, Theon chided himself.

When he reached out a tentative hand, to rest on the child’s swaddled belly, he was not surprised when the babe immediately snatched hold of him with a vice like grip. Ramsay’s tiny fingers were just large enough to wrap around a single one of Theon’s; but Drowned God, were they strong.

“You’re a possessive one, and no mistake,” whispered Theon Bolton, the future Lady of the Dreadfort, leaning down to lift his warm little babe up into his arms.

Ramsay could not answer him with words, of course. But as he allowed himself to be snuggled into Theon’s throat, the babe clung onto his mother so strongly, that Theon was truly surprised his finger did not snap underneath the pressure.

 

 

 **TEN YEARS LATER**  


“Have you lost your mind?”

Robb Stark sighed, rubbing the crease of his furrowed forehead, as though that might prevent a headache from forming.

His mother’s words were biting and sharp, and if Robb hadn’t been dealing with his Father’s agitated bannermen for months, he might have been frightened by her tone. But he had stopped being afraid of disappointing his mother, sometime after he had been forced to rule Winterfell in Father’s stead, without her assistance.

Robb did not disapprove of his mother’s grief, over Bran’s injuries. But as the days wore on, they had clashed over her insistence of remaining in the sickroom with her younger son, at the detriment of her duties as the Lady of Winterfell. Robb was five-and-ten, and had never expected to rule the North at such an age. He had Maester Luwin, but that was not enough. His youngest brother Rickon was only three, and had taken to following Robb about, wailing, unable to comprehend where their father and sisters had gone, why their mother had abandoned him, and why Bran would not wake up. His bannermen were agitated, complaining of increased wildling attacks. His little sisters were gone, and their paths might never cross again.

Desperately lonely, and feeling out of his depth despite Maester Luwin’s words of praise, Robb had sent Ser Rodrik after Jon, to bring him home. The Wall would still be there in five years, or ten. Robb needed him _now_. Thankfully, Jon had reluctantly agreed to return.

When Jon slid gracefully down from his horse, the two brothers had embraced as though they had been separated for a decade, rather than a few melancholy weeks. Mother spat that Robb's reliance on a bastard was shameful, and would make him look weak. However, it turned out Robb had been guided by the gods. Jon went into heat soon after his return, to the great shock of them all. Omegas usually blossomed between the ages of eight and ten. Though Jon was lithe and small in comparison to Robb, they had all taken the differences between them to stem from Robb’s Tully blood, and not as an indication of Jon's status.

Jon was an especially late bloomer indeed. But it was not so unusual for Omegas to bloom late in the North. Up here life was harder; due to the harsh weather conditions, simpler food and tougher paths of life. If Jon had blossomed at the Wall, it would have been a disaster. Women and Omegas were banned from the Wall for good reason. The men there had forsworn wives and children, but many had done so unwillingly. There was no doubt in Robb’s mind that Jon would have returned to Winterfell with a babe in his belly, had he been at the Wall when his first heat came.

Luckily, that had not come to pass. Robb thanked the gods every day for their mercy, ensuring Jon's safe return home, before terrible harm could befall him. Jon was safe at Winterfell again, and was learning to accept his adjusted status. Jon had always been caring towards his younger siblings. But with Mother preventing him from visiting Bran, and Arya gone to King’s Landing, Rickon was now the lucky sole recipient of his motherly affection.

Robb had written to Father, hoping for guidance on a good match for Jon. But in Robb’s eyes, his lord father had been very unhelpful. Lord Stark had suggested a man stationed in Winterfell might be best! Robb knew that was ridiculous. Even Omegas from the smallfolk were destined to be the wives of nobles. It was the way of things in Westeros. Robb had promptly decided to ignore Father’s suggestions, since they were not direct orders. He reasoned that Father had a lot on his mind, as Hand of the King, and had not given the matter adequate enough thought. Robb decided he would be able to find a husband worthy of his brother, without his lord father's help. In the meantime, he was grateful for Jon’s assistance in the daily running of Winterfell.

Despite the fact that Jon was no longer eligible to take the Black, Mother had not yet forgiven Robb for sending riders after his natural brother. She had refused to thank Jon, for taking care of Rickon when she could not. But Mother was not the ruler of Winterfell, Robb was. And though it pained him to hurt her so, it was Robb that gave the orders while Father was in the South, not her.

After that, time seemed to move so quickly. Events swiftly spiralled out of control, until Robb found himself here, stationed in a tent, leading a campaign against that shitstain of a King, Joffrey Baratheon. Needing a betrothal, to prevent himself from being forced into a less than savoury one.

Robb’s childhood at Winterfell had been sweet, but slow. The most thrilling thing that had ever happened to uproot the ordinary way of things, was when Father went to war against the Ironborn. Mother denounced them as savage pirates, and as a boy, Robb was keen to believe her.

But soon after, his childish need to believe his Mother was infallible was truly challenged for the first time. When Theon Greyjoy (the last surviving son of Lord Balon), had been fostered in Winterfell in his youth, everything changed. Mother was frightened for her children, because Theon was a pirate. But Theon was also as beautiful as the spring snows; with his sharp smile and sea green eyes. Robb wasn’t _afraid_ of Theon, he was _fascinated_ by him.

Omegas were unusual in the North, because they had so few people to begin with. And Omegas were rare enough in Westeros as it was. The majority of people in the Seven Kingdoms were Alphas or women. Theon had been the first Omega Robb had ever met. Robb followed him about everywhere, peppering the older boy with questions. Theon had been surprisingly patient, allowing Robb to drag him about by the hand; showing off the hot springs, the Sept his father had built, the armoury and smithy (until Mikken chased them out), and the stables.

Lord Eddard Stark had intended for Theon to be fostered in Winterfell for many years. But in an useeming show of vicious force, his wife had refused to allow it. Theon had already bloomed, and would go into heat regularly until he was mated. Mother was terrified that this ‘treacherous Ironborn creature’ had managed to ensnare her husband; a man who had been unfaithful to her once before, during a war. Though only the disgusting Targaryens had ever engaged in the dishonourable practice of keeping multiple wives and Omega-wives, Lady Catelyn suspected Lord Stark was hoping to replace her with an Omega. Because although Omegas were rare, they were precious; blessed by the gods with fertility, health and long-lasting youth. Their sons and daughters were strong, more likely to be hale and hearty. In the North especially, they were revered, because their children were far more likely to survive the stranglehold of Winter, when it came. And as their House words warned, Winter was _always_ on the horizon.

Eddard Stark bringing home an Omega was almost the death knell for his parent’s marriage, not that Robb had been aware at the time. He had been too busy falling inconsolably in love with the exotic Omega himself. Theon was his elder by perhaps six or seven years, far too grown to consider little Robb, unpresented as he was, a viable match. Robb had known full well his dreams were fruitless. But that did not stop him from praying in the godwood, to the old gods of his forefathers, for a chance to wed the pretty Omega.

The gods were good, but they did not work a miracle for Robb Stark, despite his newfound piety. Theon was instead betrothed to Domeric Bolton, the Alpha son of Lord Roose, who was the Lord of the Dreadfort. House Bolton was probably the second most ancient and noble House of the North, after House Stark. It was an excellent match for Theon, which was no surprise. He was destined for a great match the moment the gods decided to make him an Omega.

Robb had cried pitifully into his pillows, ashamed to be so sick of heart, when he knew full well his desire had been a childish dream. He had resolved to put all thought of Theon Greyjoy out of his head. Robb was usually a man of his word, even as a babe, but in this endeavour he failed miserably. Theon had no friends in the North, despite his lucky status as an Omega. The Northern hatred of the Ironborn outweighed their reverence of Omegas, it seemed. For Theon wrote to Robb regularly; short letters at first, full of witty observations, which became longer passages as the years wore on. Though they saw one another rarely in the flesh, by the time the ravens came to tell them of Robert Baratheon’s death and Ned Stark’s imprisonment, Robb and Theon were the closest of friends.

Even so, when Robb called the banners, he did not expect Theon to ride with them. An Omega-wife’s place was at home, even when their husband was long dead. An Omega might have started life as a boy, but after they bloomed they were mothers, and nurturers, they did not wield arms. But Theon carried a longbow, and woe betide any Alpha that thought to take it from him.

Lady Catelyn Stark had left for King’s Landing, to warn her husband of the treachery of the Lannisters, and their possible attempt on Bran’s life. So she was not there to witness the reacquaintance of her son and heir, and the Omega she had once believed was trying to steal her husband. If she had been, it might not have come as quite such a shock for her when she re-joined Robb’s camp, and witnessed the amiable relationship they shared.

Still, a friendship was tolerable; even if it was unusual, and set tongues wagging. A betrothal was something else altogether.


	2. Roose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay could barely sit still to absorb the wisdom of his elders, unless it was to mind his mother, and listen to one of Theon’s strange stories of the savage customs of their Ironborn kin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Iwan Rheon to death but young!Ramsay is obviously Asa Butterfield:  
> [](https://ibb.co/bzV8Hq) [](https://ibb.co/eTk3iV) [](https://ibb.co/7NyNZC2) [](https://ibb.co/xzcm1R2)

“A raven came from Winterfell, my lord.” The maester wheezed.

Roose dismissed the stooped old man with little more than an irritated flicker of his hand. Idly, he wondered what the comely son of Eddard Stark might want from him. He was well aware of the constant chain of correspondence between his omega-by-law, and the heir to Winterfell. But though Roose had met the boy himself on scant occasions, they had actually interacted little. The letter would not be a social invitation, not unless the boy was using his Father's absence as an excuse to betrothe himself to someone previously out of reach.

But there were no rumours of the pup being especially prone to dallying with highborns, or romantic flights of fancy like some twit in a Southern song. Roose fully expected the letter to be of some matter concerning the wider North, such as confirmation of summer snows or a question about maintaining the King's Road. Or perhaps there was some minor issue in the accounting of Winterfell's stores.

Taxation from the North to the Crown began with the smallfolk and worked its way up. Like all vassal Houses, the Boltons traded with and sent levies to Winterfell, and if there had been some issue with the transportation of goods because of bandits, the lack of cities and travel in the North meant word would come far later, than if they all lived in some other region in Westeros. Roose had exchanged letters with the Lord of Winterfell regarding their shared interests, many a time.

But if the missive was of a more adventurous nature, perhaps the boy had come up with some solution for the wildling raids further North, that he believed to be radical, and was looking to recruit men on a mission to aid the Umbers. All green boys sought glory above all things, save perhaps the parting of whore's legs. Roose would no doubt be expected to contribute some token men to any force the Stark pup wanted to muster, so he could ride out across his father's lands looking for bandits and savages to slaughter. Then the pup would ride home with his fresh kills, fangs blooded and suddenly prepared to tackle the more inane tasks of leadership with more enthusiasm.

There was a reason why men engaged in bloodsport and war, naturally, and it was not merely for the spoils they could gain. Hot blood was to a blade what oil was to boiled leather; each slick coating only advanced its suppleness, but its thirst was not quenched indefinitely. A man could not concentrate, if he left the intervals between spilling blood or emptying his balls too long. Which was why Roose set leeches upon his skin, to counteract the issue.

Like all reasonable men, he indulged in base urges when he must, but if it was of no benefit to his House, or might actively be detrimental toward it, Roose was forced to find other solutions. Whores to fuck and prisoners to torture were not infinite. And if tongues were loose and word reached Stark ears, he would not live long enough to bask in his triumph, regardless of how well-defended his castle was. The North was not primed to move against the House which had led them for over eight thousand years.

Besides that, Roose detested the idea of spilling his seed in another man's sloppy leavings. He had kept private mistresses on occasion, but had not the spare gold to waste on such frivolous indulgences. So instead, he drew out the bad blood, so that he was not distracted by his occasional lack of sport. As he began to open the letter, Roose mused that might recommend the leeching method to the young alpha pup stepping into his father's boots, in his reply. An untamed wolf could not be trusted around the sheep, after all, and if the boy thought of him as a kindly grandsire substitute, so much the better.

When Roose actually tore open the seal of the snarling direwolf in grey wax, so dark it was almost black, all thought of leeches and fatherly advice flew out of his head. The Lord of the Dreadfort was not sure he had ever been more pleased with his habit of sitting alone. He would not have wanted a single man to witness the surprised flicker of his mouth, nor the way his eyes hardened in disbelief. He prided himself on being a man who knew what to anticipate, from his rival lords.

And yet for all the rumblings that something in the South was sour, Roose had not anticipated the magnitude. Not an actual war against the Lannisters. And his teeth clenched to be introduced to his oversight in such an embarrassing manner. Roose was appalled to realise that the situation was so dire, that the Starks felt their banners must be called.

Had he known a true war might be on the horizon, Roose would have been training his men more vigorously. Alas, he would not have long to summon his men before they were expected at Winterfell. Roose took pride in the strong defence of his castle and lands, and boasted a large amount of men-at-arms in the Dreadfort, compared to the other Northern Houses of a similar size. But that was only compared to Houses in the North. The Westermen, Crownlands and Stormlords could muster far more bodies, simply due to their dense populations.

To his chagrin Roose acknowledged, even just to himself, that the Umbers and the Karstarks rivalled the amount of men and wealth he could provide. His numbers would not cause the Stark boy to fall over himself in gratitude. Now was the time to garner Robb Stark's favour, and House Bolton could not be seen to be wanting, not if they wished to secure their legacy after the fury and chaos of the battlefield.

Still, despite the wealth of potential opportunity that had opened before him like a gaping chasm, Roose allowed himself to stew in resentment for a decent length of the afternoon, before he chose to acknowledge the benefits it might afford. It was his way to approach an issue. Rarely was an event deemed worthwhile if he had not first assessed all the reasons why it was lacking in merit first.

He began thus: the Stark boy was barely whelped, his father gone for less than a turn of the stars, and already he was baying for war? True, no man of the North would shy away from defending what was rightfully his. But it seemed terribly wasteful that the rash, rabid wolves had all been burned out of their line by an abomination born of repeated incest. Leaving only the quiet, sensible, second-born pup to take up his father's seat.... only for that bolder blood to re-emerge in his redheaded, half-Tully son. It seemed no amount of riverwater flowing in its veins could dampen a wolf into true temperance. Still, it would be amusing to watch the soggy pups bite and bark, believing their little snarls akin to the howls of their almost full-grown direwolf pets.

Only time would tell if this new breed of half-fish half-wolf, could throw off the curse that Torrhen had laid upon their line. So far, the ice that kept them solid in their homeland had proven it would only melt beneath the raging fires of their enemies, whenever Starks dared to venture South of the Neck.

Roose could not deny his House had been pledged to the Starks, and must show all outward fealty. Until such time as he could find a way to install House Bolton as the central power in the North, he could not afford to arouse their suspicion. When Domeric was a boy, Roose had intended to tie his blood that of Winterfell's heirs through marriage. Unfortunately, the Tully woman gave her second-born Stark man a son first. And the Shining Star of House Dayne, if the rumours were to be believed, had provided him a bastard of the same.

When those boys were small, Roose had a faint hope that Robb Stark and his bastard brother would prove themselves omegas, in time. The young wolf certainly had the sweet girlish features of one, with his shock of Tully red-brown hair and bold blue eyes that fools would certainly swoon over in years to come. The bastard had that same otherworldly beauty that his mother was said to possess, if the tales of her haunting purple eyes and fey features were true. The Tully woman certainly did her best to hide it, shooing the base infant away and outfitting him plainly. But that only made his sweet face more obvious. The stupid woman would have dressed the babe in rags if she could have, her clear envy poisoning her own fine features with sour looks. Jealous women turned haggard quickly, it was well-known. Roose would have pitied Eddard Stark for it... if the man hadn't allowed his foolish sense of honour to cause the inevitable detriment of his wife's looks, in the first place.

All men fucked, and some had by-blows because of it. But that did not mean they should drag the babes from their mother's arms, and shove them under their wife's noses. The mother had flung herself from a tower: sobeit. But any man with sense, would have sent the infant to be fostered with relatives or a trusted bannerman. Then his wife would be pleased, and the child grow up in a caring environment, where they were not constantly reminded of their lesser status. If they believed they were cared for, a child would grow up grateful, and therefore useful. But Eddard Stark’s brand of honour had hamstrung him, not for the first nor the last time. Roose could only scoff in disgust as the man dug himself a deeper trench to mire himself in.

But despite the lack of confidence forcefully instilled in Jon Snow by the trout’s overbearing spite, the half-Stark bastard omega-to-be would no doubt make an excellent match once he blossomed. There had not been an omega with Stark blood for several generations. Every house in the North would be clamouring after the child, despite his melancholy nature.

Winter came and went, and both of Eddard’s babes survived, as he had predicted. There would be no dishonour in Eddard betrothing one of those future omegas to the second most powerful House in the North someday, bastard or trueborn. When he first mused on this, Roose lamented his lack of spare sons for the first time. He would not be able to snap up both... Not unless he could convince a young lord to part with a former son turned omega, to a man that was closer in age to his own father. So Roose did not hold out too much foolish hope on his own account.

Even if his assumptions about the boys were incorrect, Eddard Stark’s daughters were the next trueborns to emerge. And Roose was given hope during those early talks in Winterfell at the spring festival, that he would find a match for Domeric from one of them.

Lord Rickard got his paws singed treading beyond the woods, as any wolf might, but Eddard had always been a more measured man than his father. Besides, the drunkard King was no mad-man that required an alliance between the Great Houses to overthrow. The Starks had always looked to the North for matches, and there was little doubt Eddard would do so for his own bargaining pieces.

Omega or daughter, Eddard's children were young, and needed time to grow. But before any of them could flower, the drunkard upon the Iron Throne dragged himself away from his whores long enough to smash the Iron savages back upon their barren stone shores. Plunging the realm into bloodshed once more. But the combined weight of the forces Robert Baratheon could muster, now that his arse was firmly planted on Aegon's melted monstrosity, was far greater than Balon believed.

The drowned half-wit had somehow managed to convince himself that Tywin Lannister and Ned Stark were no longer such staunch allies to the Crown. His family ultimately paid the price for his stupidity. What a pointless waste of House Greyjoys’ alpha heirs. It was a chilling reminder to Roose that he must be measured in his maneuverings. He could never be rash if he wanted to secure a legacy for his own alpha heir, one that would not crumble to dust before his own eyes.

Roose had not thought to win any treasure for his House when despatching Ironmen. They were a plague upon Westeros, and battering them was its own reward. Roose could see no reason why their beloved seaweed deity did not send great wave to bury those useless rocks, and send all the Ironborn crashing down into his loving arms. No one else had need of them, so if their god was real, his cause would be better served if he hurried up about it. For surely the Drowned menace was the only being in the Seven Kingdoms that spared a good thought for those pitiless reavers.

In a trend that was becoming an irritating pattern, it was House Stark that took home the best spoils after the Greyjoy Rebellion. But not a pretty wife of good stock and two fat, healthy sons likely to live out winter this time. No, Eddard Stark had somehow found his sticky fingers holding onto the only fucking jewel those black rocks had ever produced. An Ironborn omega.

Such a thing had never been heard of before. If the Iron men regularly produced them, it was their best-kept secret, for they had never been spoken of in any recorded history known to the mainland. There were rumours of course. Tales that spoke of how Ironborn men did not consider it kinslaying, to hold their young son's heads underwater until their god claimed them permanently, if they blossomed as an omega. Better their child supped in the Drowned God’s halls, rather than have their family waste food on a 'weak abomination'.

Roose knew rumours often originated from a kernel of truth. Yet such extreme folly seemed unlikely, even for the brain-addled Ironborn. Did they not know the strongest of alphas were bred from omega loins? And if it were true that they had no use for them, how had Theon survived, if Balon were as traditional and cruel as men claimed him to be?

When Eddard was willing to give him up, Roose could think of no reason other than that the boy had been despoiled already, during the sack of Pyke. That Eddard had not claimed the boy himself seemed unlikely, despite his young age. Still, a little moon tea would rid his belly of any unwanted backwash. One of the endless great facets of omegas being their robust ability to bear healthy babes, regardless of any lost ones. Unlike women's wombs, which could be scarred and grow hostile to supporting life, an omega always produced strong, hale specimens.

Roose had considered taking the boy for his own, when Eddard made it clear he was for sale. All the lords travelling home to the North had come sniffing over the prime cut. But Eddard had always been soft-hearted, and had steered away even the most famished. The Lords of the Dreadfort had never had much occasion to praise the Starks, but even Roose could recognise that Eddard was being more diplomatic than expected, despite the strain. When denying suits from men with ill-hidden intent, Eddard had showed the child mercy. His motives seemed clear- it was Lord Stark’s practice, Roose had thought at the time, for when the salivating beasts came prowling after his firstborn son. Those Tully blue eyes had already managed to ensnare some of them, despite Robb’s unpresented nature. Not even the famously obtuse Warden of the North could be deaf to the greedy talk about his comely sons.

Roose wondered if his suit on behalf of Domeric had eventually been accepted because he was the best candidate Eddard had assessed, by the time they reached the safety of Winterfell... Or if the man was merely desperate to get his uncouth bannermen to forget about omegas again, and stay away from his children.

Setting aside the troubling letter, Roose made his way out of his solar, which was situated high up in his personal tower wing, onto the crenellations of the east wall. From his high vantage point, he could make out the small figures of his omega-by-law and grandson. Any sound they made was snatched away by the vicious wind, which was making a valiant attempt at chilling his skin to match his cold blood. But Roose was not cowed; he merely pulled his cloak a little tighter and squinted to see better. The only other living members of his House were standing side by side, as they took turns to fire arrows.

Archery was not a proper occupation for a Northern omega, but it was better than learning a bloody instrument, or dancing and singing, as the omegas of the South did. Even Domeric had been influenced by his time fostering in the Vale enough to adopt an instrument, to Roose’s continued displeasure. His alpha son and heir had seldom given him cause for disappointment. The most glaring instance being that the boy had not outlived him.

No man should have to bury his future, least of all the lord of a seat. But the gods had at least seen fit to grant him another heir, in the form of his only son’s only son, another blessed alpha. The boy was more passionate than his father had been. Whereas Domeric was cold-blooded like himself, measured and thoughtful, Ramsay had inherited more of his mother’s temperament. The young alpha might look almost entirely Bolton, but he was loud, headstrong, tempestuous even; quick to anger and slow to forgive. Ramsay nursed a slight at his breast like possessive magpie. He would peck the eyes out from any that sought to appease him, in place of a fight over the issue. He delighted in inflicting pain in a manner Roose was not quite sure he had ever seen before.

Roose Bolton pursed his lips, considering again Robb Stark’s call to war, and what it might mean for his rash grandson. Could he afford to take the boy with him as a squire? If some accident befell him on the battlefield, it would be safer for House Bolton if the boy was here in the Dreadfort, attempting to escape his lessons in lordly duties, as was his custom. But truly the boy was too green to be left to rule the Dreadfort. The household was already used to Theon’s input. A castellan could take care of what Roose generally oversaw, and together they would manage; but the gods alone could predict what kind of brutal nonsense might be unleashed, if he decided to leave the boy to rule in his stead, under his mother’s indulgence.

Theon didn’t spoil the child, so much as he was the only one who could truly manage to get the boy to see reason. Temporarily. And even a mother's hold was tenuous, at best. Roose's grandson had his own ideas about what held merit, and little could sway him. Ramsay could barely sit still to absorb the wisdom of his elders, unless it was to mind his mother, and listen to one of Theon’s strange stories of the savage customs of their Ironborn kin.

What might happen to the Dreadfort, if the boy was left in the care of his haughty mother? There was no great affection between Roose and his omega-by-law, though Theon adhered to his rule for the most part, and rarely gave his goodfather cause to notice his comings and goings.

Theon commanded the household with an Iron fist, as was to be expected by the Lady of a noble House. He was forthright enough to fret over the issues Roose had no cares for, and demand the solutions he had settled upon. Which was excellent, as there was no one else to do it. A keep without a Lady was a barren place, that bannermen were reluctant to shed their cares and be at ease in. Men on their guard were less likely to impart valuable information. So Roose was glad indeed, of an omega-by-law who proved himself a good enough host, to to charm his bannermen into loosening their tongues. Especially considering their initial distrust of his Greyjoy origins. But this particular individual Ironborn youth had won them over, despite the continued disgust they held for his countrymen.

Theon was still beautiful, and fertile. Yet for all his temper and determination, he had done his duty, and denied his string of suitors, after Domeric’s death. It was an omega’s custom, especially if they still had babes at the breast. True, Ramsay had been long weaned by the time his father died… but the respectful sentiment was clear. It had pleased Roose that the omega had honoured his son’s memory, beyond the mere allotted years that propriety dictated.

Among the braver Northmen, there had been some grumblings that Lord Bolton was hoarding the omega unfairly. In the North, omegas were known to be rare but famously loyal. If their husband died in their fertile years, most remarried not too many years after. But Theon showed no inclination to seek out a new match, no matter how many Whitehill or Ryswell sons came calling. And Roose was not so well situated that he could afford to encourage one of the few members of his House to leave it. Blood was the only thing a man could trust, after everything else had been skinned away, after all. Blood was all the remained in the end.

As Roose silently watched the only scion of his bloodline, and the omega that had birthed him calmly interact, he was darkly amused at the prospect of raising Theon’s hissing, spitting ire. Roose now wondered if he had made the right choice, in allowing the young omega to remain unwed for so many years. For surely Theon would rain bitter hellfire down upon Roose’s head, once he learnt that Roose intended to take his only son on the long march to war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is more prologue-y type stuff you probably hate me, but hey, at least it's a chapter right? I hope its better than nothing anyway...


	3. Jon

Despite his inability to grow facial hair, Jon had never had any indication that he would grow up to be anything other than an alpha. He had wrongly assumed a beard would grow in eventually. And Northmen came in many shapes; it was perfectly normal for alphas to be tall and lean, or broad and stocky. And in the South, they believed that omegas were the most blessed by the Seven. So it stood to reason that no bastard would be born an omega then, since Lady Catelyn's gods would surely never reward a mistaken child in such a manner. Though the old gods were less absolute, and cared more about the worth of a man's bloodline than his status, they had no preachers to give them a voice, and Jon was not sure if Northmen cherished omegas because the gods did, or upon their own merits alone. And with the gradual encroachment of Southern beliefs into some areas of the North, former attitudes were changing and merging.

Jon had grown up with constant reminders from his father's lady wife, that bastards were useless to their noble line. They could only gain honour by remaining out of sight, and being loyal serfs to their trueborn siblings. He had done his best to ignore her harsh, cold looks, but no matter the occasion, she made him feel unwelcome. No joyful event was too great that Lady Stark could forget her hatred of him, even for a moment.

For all that he had been at Castle Black for scant days, the Night's Watch, sour and wretched though it was, was filled with men who despised all the green recruits equally. Jon was not singled out or special in that regard. The Night's Watch was considered honourable only in the North; to the rest of the realm, apparently it was a dumping ground for their unwanted refuse. Jon was horrified to learn that his Uncle and Father had lied to him about its nature all his life. That he would be expected to call a vast quantity of rapers and murderers 'brother' once his vows were taken. As though those vile men could ever stand equal to Robb and Bran and Rickon in his heart. But Jon was too proud to turn back from his path, now that he had stepped upon it.

Besides, he had little choice. Lady Catelyn would not allow him back in Winterfell, and where else could he go? South, to beg a hedge knight to take him as a squire? East to White Harbour, to beg work on a trading galley? Why were those options any more likely to lead to honour and brotherhood than the one he had been steered toward? Maester Luwin and Lady Catelyn were right to remind his Father that the Starks had manned the Wall since its creation. Once he proved himself to Uncle Benjen and took his vows, he would have a family for life, one that would not cast him aside so easily.

Or he would have, were it not for Ser Rodrik, turning up and practically dragging him back by his hair. Jon had refused initially, not convinced that the situation was so dire that Robb needed him so, despite his brother's heartfelt words, set down with quill and ink. It burned Jon's throat to deny to his brother. It must have cost proud, lordly Robb Stark dearly to beg his bastard brother to attend upon him, and admit he needed a bastard's help. Spurning Robb's request gave him a sick, burning sensation in his stomach, one-part misery to know his family would be downhearted, and one-part disgusting pleasure at being the cause of that upset. To have the choice and chance to deny his elder brother anything, was a luxury Jon was not sure he had ever had.

All his life, his father's lady wife had been suspicious of Jon, blaming him for every incident of unrest that was possible. She wanted him separated from her precious children at all times, and found ways to punish him for the fact her sweet babes loved their half-brother, despite his low status.

The Lord Commander was reluctant to let him leave. They did not get many castle-trained men, and Jon's good steel was needed. He seemed furious that a young lordling was trying to prevent a willing man from pledging himself and taking the Black, but he had no power to keep Jon if he did not wish to remain. All Jeor Mormont could use were his words; honour and duty and steadfastness. How could any man trust the word of another, if none adhered to their word? But Jon had not given his word to anyone that he would take the Black, only insisted that he was ready to do so, as a naive child who did not know what it truly meant, because no one had seen fit to tell him the truth of it.

In the end, Robb's letter and Ser Rodrik's insistence swayed him. No matter what else men said of him, Jon would have none say that he did not love his brothers and sisters. If they had need of him, he would come to their aid. He had sworn to the gods before the heart tree that he was better than his base blood; he only wanted to help them retain their birthright and good health and happiness. He would not prove Lady Catelyn correct in her assumptions. He would never usurp their birthright. But how could he call himself a man, if he could so easily set aside his family when they called for his aid? It was disturbing to reflect that he would have had to do so, if Robb hadn't sent Ser Rodrik straight away, and he had already taken his vows. That was the pledge after all, to forsake his father's House in the service for all the realms of men.

It had certainly given Jon much to think on, as he began the journey anew. Tyrion Lannister grumbled at the idea of returning to the road again so quickly. But the Lord Commander promised to see him safely back to Winterfell, and his escort remained, so Jon was confident they would meet again shortly. He was shocked to realise how much he had come to appreciate the small man's company. Tyrion Lannister was far kinder, wittier and knowledgeable that his reputation would have had Jon believe. He counted the man as a friend, if such a thing was possible between men of such different class.

It was not that Ser Rodrik was unkind; he had taught Robb and Jon swordplay, and was considered by all to be a fair and just man. Still, Jon could not help but notice that Rodrik favoured Robb- as all their father's men did. And as a child it rankled him, always to be judged against his elder brother's merits, and not on his own. Still, that was the lot of all men with elder brothers, and not bastards alone, Jon had come to realise.

But on the road home, Jon realised for the first time how detached Ser Rodrik and his small band of men were, in comparison to the easy warmth he had been granted from Lord Tyrion. Northmen were gruff and honest, and thought honeyed words deceptive. But Lord Tyrion's clever turns of phrase hadn't been utilised to deceive. If fact, he was the only man who had ever made Jon think about his bastardy as an armour he could wear. If he accepted that men would always term him as such, no matter what he did, it became less of an insult and more easy to bear. No one, not even his father, had ever given Jon such advice. Now, he wondered why. Could none but a dwarf truly relate to how it felt to be constantly reminded of one’s lack of worth? Could none at Winterfell understand how that constant disrespect might weigh upon a man?

All these questions and realisations weighed heavy in Jon's mind, as they trotted toward home. The wind was bitterly cold so far North. But Jon seemed to bear it better than most. It seemed he was not as cold as the other men, who were bundled in their thickest furs yet remained miserable. As though winter had already begun to descend in their hearts. The early signs of his blossoming were obvious in retrospect, but at the time Jon had merely been grateful that he was not chilled to the bone.

The sight of the grey stone towers of Winterfell, cresting over the horizon, warmed Jon's heart in a way he had not truly anticipated. Tears of joy sprang to his eyes, but Jon refused to let them fall. He was ashamed to display such softness over such a simple return. What would the men think of him for being so weak-hearted?

In the back of Jon's mind, he carried the fear of Lady Catelyn's reaction to his return, but it was brushed aside by the overwhelming relief. He was home once more, the only place he had ever been welcome, no matter how reluctant that welcome was. When he had ridden North, Bran's condition had been unchanged, but at any moment it could worsen, and his baby brother might have died, without knowing how deeply he was missed by them all. Jon had been reassured that Bran's condition remained stable when Robb's riders left Winterfell, but their information was now weeks old. He would not be reassured, until he set eyes upon his sweet sleeping brother once more.

Robb was waiting in the central courtyard when they rode in. Not so long ago, Jon had stood behind him as the entirety of Winterfell had welcomed King Robert and his court. Jon flushed to be received home so joyously; Rickon was bouncing at Robb's feet, squirming in eagerness to run to him. But he was too small to approach the horses, so Robb held him back until Jon had dismounted safely. No sooner than Jon was on solid earth again, a little woozy from such vigorous riding, Rickon accosted his knees. Squeezing Jon until he scooped Rickon into his arms.

Then Robb embraced them both, tucking Jon into his neck, where his alpha scent was strong. It was something Jon had never noticed before, but then he had been surrounded by it all of his life. Rickon pressed his head against his brother's arms, as they held him in their long embrace, with no regard for how they might look to a casual observer.

If Robb had realised how much he looked like a husband embracing his wife and child, he certainly would have been more cautious about his affection, Jon mused later. But at the time, before he blossomed as an omega, he was merely grateful for the reminder that his brother did indeed love him.

"I've missed you, little brother," Robb forced out from a throat thick with unspoken emotion.

Jon flushed with shame to be reminded of the pure nature of his brother's love. He was wrong to question Robb’s affections. Robb was not selfish for reaching out for help, and Jon knew had been wrong to dismiss his brother's worries. He was certain then he had made the right decision to return, and he could not imagine what could ever compel him to leave his family again.

"And I've missed you," Jon replied, hitching little Rickon higher on his hip. The boy was heavier than he remembered, though the weight of him was a comforting reminder to his arms. Rickon wiggled and twisted to gain his attention.

“I missed you most!” He insisted, to which Jon could not help but smile. The sentiment warmed him, but he had no doubt it was the attention from all his family that Rickon missed, and not specifically Jon’s contribution to it.

"We'll have dinner, just us tonight, and you can tell me all about the Wall," Robb grinned, as he began to lead them inside, his arm casually flung about Jon’s shoulders.

"Did Lannister achieve his dream and piss off the edge of it?" the acting Lord of Winterfell asked flippantly. If Lord and Lady Stark had been present, they would have clipped his ears for speaking so in front of Rickon.

Jon threw his head back with a bark of laughter. It was wonderful to be home.

*

When Jon made his way to the sickroom, Bran was sleeping still, his small face pale and relaxed in repose. Robb accompanied him, speaking in quiet tones of how his lady mother was no longer confined with Bran, as she had been in the first throes of her sorrow. But he was not surprised to see a seven-sided effigy of her Faith adorning the foot of Bran’s bed. Jon was not likely to ever forget the making of it, since Lady Stark had been holding the prayer-wheel in her hands, when she told him he should have been the one to fall and break his back, in Bran’s stead.

Looking at the prayer-wheel now, Jon shivered to be reminded of the depth of her hate. Whereas the signs of her worship of the Seven might be indications of the healing of her mind to others, to Jon, those symbols would always be ones of terror and pain. He quickly averted his eyes from it, once he realised Robb would ask him why he was staring.

Bran was not alone in the room; Old Nan was asleep in a chair beside him, and Jon crossed the creaky floorboards carefully to avoid waking her. He wanted a moment alone with his brothers, with no others looking in, judging him on his right to care for them; all of them judging, constantly.

“He’s going to wake up,” Robb insisted, though without the certain confidence his voice had held, on the day Jon rode for the Wall.

Still, Jon could do nothing but nod in agreement, and kneel beside the injured boy. Bran looked like a baby bird with a broken wing; swallowed by the furs, pale as death. But his chest rose and his eyes moved beneath their lids, and Jon held onto the hope that his little brother was dreaming.

“Well, I’m back from the Wall, but I see you’re not ready to accompany me on a tour of Castle Black yet,” he began, hoping that some part of Bran would be able to hear him. “But I don’t know my way round it, so perhaps its for the best, eh? When I do know all the nooks and best hiding spots, I promise we’ll go there together, and look out over the edge of the world. The Wall is beautiful, aye, but scary too. I know you’d adore it.”

Feeling his heart break anew at Bran’s unmoving form, Jon carefully reached over to press a kiss to his brow.

“I’ll see you again soon, because I’m here to stay, at least for a little while.”

As Jon rose to his feet, a sound in the corridor caught his attention. He and Robb turned at the same moment to the unwelcome sight of Lady Stark, her joyless face severe and devoid of warmth, even though her eyes merely skittered over Jon before settling on her own son. Rarely had any of her ire been directed at her children if Jon was in the vicinity, and it was curious and strange that Robb did not seem cowed nor startled by her harsh censure, silent though it was.

When Jon left for the far North, Lady Stark was frazzled and tear-stained. It appeared someone had been forcing her to bathe and eat and sleep more regularly, for she looked less haggard, despite remaining mired in her grief. With no word for either of the young men, she crossed the room in measured strides, and touched a hand to Old Nan’s shoulder, to gentle the woman awake. The elderly servant took her leave, shuffling ahead of the young wolves of Winterfell. Ordinarily they might have had more spring in their step, were the situation less woeful.

As Jon headed towards his rooms, Robb was right behind him, and he was grateful that his elder brother had been in the room. At least this time, no vile notions had been hurled at him. At least he was no longer expected to set aside his own grief and leave without looking back.

“He’s going to wake, I know it,” Robb mumbled, but Jon found he could not bring himself to give a meaningless platitude in reply.


	4. Stannis

The realm was surrounded by bastards and usurpers, holding the Seven Kingdoms in a chokehold.

Stannis stared at the maps that his husband had laid out, disgusted at the rabble that had arisen in the war-room. They were fighting this war in his name only. Were it not for his belief that a happy marriage came from the adherence of one's place in the world, Stannis could not have sanctioned it. But the fact remained that Cersei's children were bastards, and with no trueborn alpha heirs, Robert had left the Crown to his omega brothers.

 _To me_ , Stannis thought, squeezing an antlered stag token, meant to represent their troops, between his slender fingers.

After his brother's war of conquest, Stannis had been married into House Florent. Instead of being granted Storm's End, as was his right. Omegas and women did not generally inherit the seat of their fathers. But when there was no one else, when the line had been culled back so far... It should have fallen to Stannis. No matter that he was a young, fertile omega, able to secure an alliance for his kingly brother. But instead of marrying the second son of a vassal Stormlord, keeping Storm's End in Baratheon hands, Stannis had been used as chattel. To keep the Tyrells from feeling comfortable in the Reach, he was married into their rival House.

Stannis stood in line to be the Lady of Brightwater Keep, when Alekyne's father, Lord Alester, died. He had settled into his new home with some trepidation, but found the keep and surrounding lands very pleasant. There was no great love between him and his husband, but the man was at least sensible, and not cruel. They were amiable, and on the whole, Stannis had been content. He had done his duty, as he always did. He provided his husband with an heir, and a daughter besides.

Watching Storm's End settled upon his babe of a brother had been a bitter bite to swallow, but Stannis had actually laughed when his younger brother blossomed as an omega three years later. No longer eligible for the keep on the same grounds that Stannis had been ousted, he had sent for the petulant child, whom he had protected all throughout the rebellion. Renly had grown into a frivolous, irritating creature, and was miserable to have his freedoms stripped. But such was the lot of an omega, and Stannis was unsympathetic to his plight. It was a mere taste of the injustices he had swallowed.

Raising his brother alongside his children came with its own challenges. Renly tempted them into disobedience, or at least tried to. Shireen was not a willful girl on her own account, but she was thrilled by the lies maesters laid down in their so-called accounts of history.

Stannis had been relieved when Renly had come to him with suitors vying for his hand. The boy was too distracting. His heats rousing sinful lust in otherwise honourable men. And with far less propriety than Stannis himself, Renly was like to beget a bastard of his own, as Robert was so fond of doing. Stannis did not deny the hypocrisy of the rules, for alphas and omegas. Because alpha men did the planting, they could shirk their sin like it was a parasite in their fur, rubbed off on treebark. Omega men did not have that luxury. They carried their babes within them, and the cord of love and duty toward them, was as strong as the umbilical tube which must be severed when they were born into the world.

Renly had begged him to be allowed to marry Loras Tyrell. The third son of that buffoon, Mace Tyrell. A man who had feasted and danced and sang, while they slowly starved to death. Renly had been a fat, healthy babe. By the end of the war, Stannis could count his ribs. If it had not been for Ser Davos...

Stannis could not understand it.

"You will not inherit Highgarden, unless his brothers die."

"I don't care!" Renly had wailed in reply, ever melodramatic and ridiculous.

Stannis remembered eying the foolish child with distaste. "You would be content to live upon the charity of his family? Beholden to the whims of others? I think not."

"It would not be so," Renly pouted, "Loras earns much coin at tourneys-"

"A position he cannot keep forever," said Stannis, "All warriors age and decrease in strength. I do not think Ser Loras the kind to save and plan long ahead. He will fritter his gold away, and feast and drink the food belonging to his betters for the remainder of his life. If you must have a Tyrell, wed the heir. Give yourself the power to make the decisions of your household. As I shall."

But Renly had scoffed, and appealed to Robert. Under Westerosi law, omegas remained the property and responsibility of their fathers, and their alpha brothers or uncles should they perish. The unluckiest gained Lord Protectors; many of whom that became their husbands in time. Stannis could not prevent Renly from throwing himself away on a lesser son, as Robert allowed it.

What was more, Robert granted Loras and Renly Storm's End. Provided their eldest alpha heir stylised himself as a Baratheon, rather than a Tyrell. It was an elegant solution to their succession crisis, and one Stannis should have seen from miles ahead. He had been a fool. He should have arranged a match for Renly, before the Tyrell schemer could sink his thorns in. It was obvious that House Tyrell were chafing at their loss of Wardenship. Stannis had at least secured that tile for his new House.

Jon Arryn agreed that Stannis could not be bestowed upon a lesser House, when so many marriages between Great Houses had recently taken place. The Tyrells remained the Lords Paramount of the Reach in name only. House Florent were the Reach's representative the court of King's Landing. They drafted the laws of the Reach. And Stannis' new husband was named Master of Ships.

It was during their time in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, that Stannis had begun to suspect the truth of Cersei's brood. But Jon Arryn had died before proof could be obtained.

When Ned Stark came looking for answers, Stannis had been able to steer him to the truth. The foolish man had wished to confront Cersei, and give her the chance to escape justice. For the children, Lord Stark said. Alekyne had scoffed, and even Renly had been useful in making the man see sense. But before they could proceed with the coup, Robert was mortally wounded. They had almost succeeded in overthrowing the Lannister troops. They had been too many, and in the end, their combined household had been forced to flee the city.

They had not managed to secure everyone. Lord Stark's eldest daughter had fled the violence, shunning her own blood for allegiance to the Queen. She would come to rue her choice, when she realised the poisonous shrew she had thrown her lot in with. Stannis ground his teeth in annoyance that the petulant, spoilt girl did not understand she was providing the Lannisters with a hostage. He was quite sure Shireen had never been so dumb. Stannis had sent his children to Brightwater after Jon Arryn's suspicious death.

He could not fathom why Ned Stark had instead allowed his to be dragged into the belly of the beast; the seedy seat of the Lannister's strangulation of the Crown.

 _My rightful seat,_ he reminded himself. It was strange to consider himself the rightful Queen.

But it was the truth of the matter, regardless of what his turncloak brother said. Renly had fled to Storm's End. But instead of raising his troops in support of Stannis' claim, as promised, instead he had risen his banners against his own brother. Staking his own claim upon the Crown, as an omega "better suited for Queenship". It was the worst kind of base treachery. To think, he had nursed a traitor as his own breast...

Naturally, House Tyrell had pledged themselves to his younger brother's claim. They knew how Stannis despised them. They should have been attempting to placate his ire, and earn back some honour by fighting for his rightful claim. But as all cowards did, they chose to hide behind a fool, hoping instead to pull Renly's strings. He would be their puppet Queen, and Loras the true power upon the throne. His brother was too pigheaded and arrogant to believe it.

But House Florent were not without friends in the Reach. They had used their influence over the crown to grant favours to their trusted friends. Stannis had not been privy to all of his husband's choices, but the Master of Ships granted trading commissions, and set trading prices for sea-ferried goods, and allotted slots along the Blackwater Harbour. Those they had favoured were not so ignorant as House Tyrell. They knew and trusted Alekyne Florent, and knew he would do well by them if he rose to Kingly status.

This time, at the close of this war, Stannis would ensure that House Tyrell were wiped completely from the land. They were fickle, disloyal and dishonourable, and he would see their scourge wiped clean. They were indicative of the worst kind of creatures.

"My lords, I must go North to rally my forces. Robb is too young to lead seasoned men into battle. I am unsure how much control he will maintain. Northmen are loyal, but any man's patience would be tested by being ordered by a green boy," Lord Stark said wearily. "But first, we must set the ransom terms for my daughter."

Lord Alester, snorted; "If she will even come when called. How can you know Lady Sansa wouldn't allow the Lannisters to retain our gold, and remain in their service, regardless?"

The Northmen darkened at that. Stannis ground his teeth. Irritated that no discussion could take place without such hostilities.

"Lady Sansa is a hostage," barked Ser Jory, recently knighted by Lord Stark, to give him equal standing amongst his Southron counterparts.

"A willing one," countered a Reachman.

"My daughter is a child." snapped Lord Stark, his patience wearing thin. The arguing had been lasted hours already, "A sweet, gentle one. She never took up arms, my lords, nor fostered an interest in strategy or intrigue. She is guileless. A true lady, pious and polite. The depths of Cersei's depravity would never enter her mind. She simply saw men slain, and ran to the closest harbour. She did not understand how her faith was misplaced."

Stannis could not deny he felt for the man. Though they had never been close, they were allies, and Ned Stark's unwavering loyalty was unquestionably reliable. Stannis had rarely met men of true honour. From what he had seen, Ser Davos was the only other man who always found the narrow moral path, even in the murkiest fog.

"My lords, I know you are tired," Stannis at least intervened, "Know you are taking the only righteous path open to you, by supporting my claim. I will see the bastards gone from the Iron Throne. But that does not mean Cersei Lannister should be without her children. She has a valuable hostage in Lady Sansa, but as do we."

Alekyne gaped at him. "My lady, you do not mean to-"

"As most of you know, we did not leave King's Landing empty handed. The bastard Mrycella Waters is precious to her mother. As yet, she can only suspect our involvement of the former Princess' disappearance. Lady Lannister cannot be sure if she is hosted by our forces or Renly's. We must use what advantage we have, and set up a parlay. It will give us time to build our strength, and for Lord Stark to join his."

Stannis did not worry that Ned Stark would follow in his younger brother's footsteps. Turncloaks such as Renly were few and far between.


	5. Ramsay

"Forgive me, my lords," said the loud, booming man, "But I was lead to believe this was a gathering to discuss battle strategy. Not a ladies' sewing circle. When I want the opinion of an Ironborn wench, I'll stick my head in Sunset Sea and gargle. It'd do me much the same use."

Ramsay snarled, clenching his fist against the dagger he kept sheathed against his hip. Beside him Mother stiffened, laying a solemn, placating hand upon his elbow. Long pale fingers stretched over Ramsay's forearm, almost spanning the width of it. Recently, he had sprouted up in height. His fat was yet too catch up, leaving him with a gangly look. Perhaps that was why the men gathered here were so quick to dismiss him.

"You are entitled to your distrust, Lord Umber," Mother said softly, still retaining his gentle grip, "For my part, I have only been the wife of a Northman, and mother to a Northern child, for over a decade. Governing their household and sharing in the unique struggles we _all_ face in the North, against winter and wild men. But none of us shall advance very far South, if we cannot learn to set aside our differences, here, at the outset. We must present a united front against the Lannisters."

Mother's voice was calm and soft; dangerous. He had learnt that from Grandfather, Ramsay thought. Grandfather never raised his voice, and did not respond well to hysterics. The only way to convince Roose Bolton of the merit of a thing, was to present your argument with rigid control.

"Lady Bolton is right," huffed Lord Whitehill, a plump, fleshy pig of a man, with huge moustaches and eyes that were too small for his ruddy face. "We have lived the same hardships, and now we face the same threat, from those who dare to call our Lord 'traitor', and hound him like a criminal. The Lannisters are the worst of the lot. Tricky and false. If we let them, they'll sow discord among us."

Lord Umber huffed, as though offended personally by the idea. He looked ready to rage again, that Last Hearth was closest to the Wall, and no other House had to deal with so many deserters and wildlings. But young Lord Stark seemed to agree with Mother, and glared at the huge man when he opened his mouth. Ramsay was distracted from their exchange, by looking upon their young commander. He was swamped in his furs, barely taller than his freak of a pet wolf, and not so very older than Ramsay himself.

 _Direwolves,_ Grandfather had whispered to him when they rode into Winterfell, his eyes crinkling. (The closest he got to amusement.) The Starks kept wild, untameable beasts, likely to tear their limbs off while they slept. Ramsay's choice to train hunting dogs was much more sensible, Grandfather said. A regularly fed bitch was loyal forever.

And loyalty was everything, Mother said.

"Loyalty is all that keeps the smallfolk from slitting our throats,"  he would whisper, as he tucked Ramsay into bed, "their fealty, and a healthy dose of fear."

Ramsay knew about fear. He'd already killed a man. Three, in fact; poachers, daring to steal from their land. He was supposed to bring prisoners back to the Dreadfort, if ever he encountered bandits or wildlings. Grandfather passed judgement on Bolton lands. No deserter from the Night's Watch had ever made it to Ned Stark's swift judgement, if he was foolish enough to run South-Eastward.

 _Our way is the old way,_ Ramsay thought, _and we need no Stark's help to govern our lands._

And his boys knew better than to tell Grandfather anything. Mother had informed him, when Ratty had betrayed him. Tattling to Grandfather, when Ramsay had stolen a meat pie from the kitchens, and made a kitchen maid cry by pinching her to do it. Ratty hadn't lived out the winter.

But Mother never kept secrets. He shared his plans and thoughts with Ramsay, and taught him how to be strong, like an alpha Ironborn. Ramsay was a Northman, but he carried the blood of reavers and reapers. They were not so very different from Boltons, if Mother had the tales right. Ramsay had even written to his Ironborn Grandsire, when he killed the poachers. He wanted that decrepid old man to know, his lady mother had birthed a strong alpha: the true heir of both their Houses.

Mother told him not to be disappointed, if there was no response to his letter. Lord Balon was a bitter old man, with no love for anything but his salt-crusted chair. He'd even tried to drown Mother, when he was just a child. Dragged his son all the way to the beach, and almost succeeded in kinslaying.

Ramsay owed his existence to Alannys Greyjoy. She had hefted and thrown a heavy shield at her husband, to force him to relinquish their son. In the distraction, she was able to drag Theon ashore, spluttering and gagging for air. Then Lady Greyoy trembled, between her husband and omega son, a naked blade in her hand. Threatening to drown all of their other children and then herself, if Theon died. Ramsay had heard the tale many times from his Mother. If his Grandmother wasn't half-mad, Ramsay would never have been born. For, not long after his son's blossoming and his thwarted assassination attempt, Balon burned out his frustrations by instead waging war.

The terms of Grandsire Balon's surrender to the Iron Throne included a marriage, for his omega child.  It was a common solution to war: inter-marriage between factions, to smooth the way for peace. None could doubt the sincerity of the Greyjoy surrender, when the handed up such a precious boon.

"The greenlanders thought they had stolen a prize," Mother sneered, when recounting his betrothal to Father, "No doubt my father was pleased, to be rid of an embarrassment to his legacy."

But there was no shame in such arrangements. Even King Robert had married a Lannister, to ensure the stability of the realm. Or so Grandfather always said. Fat lot of good it had done the old sot. Combining bloodlines was the only way to peace. For waging war upon your old enemy, would then mean waging war upon your own kin. But Robert had allowed himself to grow horns, ensuring that his seed caught in any but the correct cunt.

Grandfather had no great love for the gods, but even he stayed his hand at the thought of kinslaying. He told Ramsay time and again, that to raise a hand against his Ryswell uncles, no matter how uncouth their pursuit of Mother was, would be to invite curses and corruption down upon his own head. Mother, for once unequivocally, was in agreement.

Mother never related his warnings back to his own father, but Ramsay saw the connection, just the same. He wondered at the depth of Ironborn savagery, to be so determined to damn themselves in the pursuit of strength. And if their routine kinslaying was the reason their campaigns were always fucked. Grandmother had the right of it; preventing her husband from bringing any more curses upon their line. Ramsay longed to meet the woman who had defended her babe, with all the ferocity of a she-wolf or bear or lion, despite being of salt and rock. But they were not permitted to leave the North, not without Grandfather's approval. Perhaps he would finally give it, after this war was won.

But that come could later. After Ramsay had found chance to strip the skin from the face of the bloated giant, who dared to insult his mother. No man with any self-worth would allow such behavior to go unchecked. There was little enough that Ramsay could call his own; his bow and his bitches, his knives and his boys. The Dreadfort would be his in time, but the people would not heed his wishes above his Grandfather's, for many years hence. But above all that, there was Mother. Mother had always been his, and since Father had died, was his alone.

The one person who always made sure Ramsay had what he needed, was Mother. Mother, who never forced him to practice his letters or dancing or swordplay, when he wished to use his bow. Mother, who pressed kisses into his hair, as he whispered of the carnage to come when they wiped the land of their enemies. Ramsay was first in Mother's affections, and would remain so, until he bred up an omega of his own, and sired more Boltons for their line.

He expected his babes would be a worthy distraction for Mother. Mother would be old by that time, and would need something to coo over and protect. Because he did fuss overmuch sometimes. Coddling Ramsay as though he were still a babe. He had screamed and raged at Grandfather for _days_ , over his decision to take Ramsay to war. Ramsay stood for it when he must, but he would have no need of cosseting, when he was a man grown. And it would be best to advance to that state, by looking for an advantageous betrothal during this war. He might never travel further afield again.

War was when young squires were knighted for acts of gallantry and valour, and fealty was rewarded with treasures. Mother himself had been won, in the last war Northmen had fought. So it made perfect sense, that Ramsay would find such a reward for himself upon the battlefield.

The North remembered, and loyal bannermen were rewarded. If he was remarkable enough, he might even get the Stark’s omega, who was a pretty thing, though a bit meek for his tastes. A quiet shadow behind his lordly brother. Still, the baseborn omega looked good with the little one on his hip, or the crippled one in his arms. A natural mother. Ramsay would need a bride like that, because he was not the warmest of creatures himself. And babes need a Mother to gentle and fuss over them. That’s as mothers should be. Just as soon as he had won acclaim, he could put forth his suit.

Ramsay’s musings were cut short by the huge man scoffing loudly again.

“And just how can we trust that the North will be safe, leaving Balon’s whelp in charge of the Dreadfort?” he roared like a bull moose that had learnt the common tongue, “It would be just typical of that miserable Iron fuck, to invade while the North is emptied of able-bodied men! And that pretty thing seated there, would throw the doors wide open, no doubt.”

Mother glowered silently, but Ramsay had listened to more than enough. He shot to his feet, knocking over a pitcher of wine while he did, and it gushed like blood across the polished wooden table.

“Clumsy fuck,” someone from the Karstark contingent muttered, but Ramsay did not see who, for his eyes were focused entirely upon the man he wished to flay. Mother’s fingers were digging into his wrist again, clenched tight about his arm. Ramsay hadn’t realised his hand had flown back to his knife, clear for all to see.

“I’ll give you one chance,” Ramsay said quietly, “to retract your insult to my lady mother.”

The lord laughed, unafraid and unapologetic.

“Lord Umber-” began Robb Stark, his wolf growling at his side, but the rude boor cut across the acting lord;

“I’d lick my meals from the floor, before I let some green streak of piss tell me how to talk to some reaping whoreson's bitch-”

But Mother had let go, giving his hand a gentle squeeze of permission. Ramsay didn’t hesitate to draw the thin dagger from his hip, and before the assembled lords could blink, let alone draw their blades, Ramsay expertly flicked his wrist and let it soar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay is indeed a claimant to Pyke, within this scenario. Omegas have the same rights as women when it comes to property, meaning their sons don't usually inherit their grandfather's lands, because they inherit their father's. But if there's no other heirs, a daughter's son would have a claim. Ramsay would have to fight Victarion over Ironborn support (but not if Asha|Yara has anything to say about it).
> 
> Then again, why be the King of a small pile of rocks, when you can be Lord of a huge castle and fertile lands? ....is there any way to be both? You'll have to wait and see!
> 
> If you've read any of my other ASOIAF fanfiction featuring Ramsay, you absolutely know who his omega is going to be.


	6. Tommen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommen is Dean-Charles Chapman. The show messed up by not aging him up in the beginning, but this is S1, so he's still young, but not AS young here.  
> Daenaera Velaryon played by Tamsin Egerton (who looks older in these pics than she appears in this chapter, but there aren't many medieval children in shows for the aesthetic):  
> [](https://ibb.co/QdtLMhb) [](https://ibb.co/yS1X4Y5) [](https://ibb.co/7KWQsj5)  
> (look close at the last pic and you can see she's wearing a shell pendant!)

Standing rooted in place, enraptured by her pretty, aqua-green eyes, Tommen had never felt so enchanted by his betrothed in all his life. Daenaera giggled at the awe-struck look on his face, and he could not contain a flush. She must think him dim-witted. But she was the one to render him so, wearing such a stunning teal and silver dress, so perhaps she was proud.

"My lady," he stammered, "You look wonderful."

She curtsied to him, dipping into a low bob which allowed him a peek at the top of her small bosom, before she returned to her full height. Being more than two years his senior, she had always been taller than him, even when they were children. The were still children, but old enough to wed now, Mother said. Since Father's death and Joffrey's coronation as King, Mother said there was no need to wait any longer.

This ball was for their sake; Daenaera had hoped for a tourney. In truth, they had been promised one, for their wedding. Father had promised mummers from Volantis and dancers from Lys, a tourney and their own song commissioned. Followed by a tour of the Stormlands afterward, to see the lands of his fore-fathers, the Storm Kings. It had been mostly to keep Mother happy, Tommen suspected. Mother never liked it, when nobles and smallfolk were not forced to make a grand occasion of any event pertaining to the royal family. She thought it commanded respect, to be seen throwing lavish celebrations regularly.

People often thought Tommen was slow of wit, because he was not sweet like Myrcella, or sharp-tongued like his Uncle Tyrion, or loud and boisterous, like Joffrey. But Tommen listened, and he learned from those around him. He preferred to read, more than any other activity. He was not yet trained in swordplay, though his master-at-arms tried. Many at court thought Tommen too gentle to be an alpha, and his soon-to-be wife's family agreed.

They had only sanctioned to his betrothal to Daenaera, if the Crown decreed that the younger Prince would still be married into House Velaryon, should he bloom as an omega. Mother took this as a grave insult. Any betrothal was automatically void, if the boy blossomed into an omega; as the gods had clearly deemed their union unfit. Instead of risking weak, defective seed to take root, the gods instead granted the boy a chance to birth beautiful babes of his own. In this way, the Seven corrected the mistake of the boy's birth form, and blessed him with the alluring form of an omega. Just as the gods were Seven aspects in One, an omega was two aspects in one, personally touched by the gods. Blessed.

In ensuring that the young Prince would still be tied into their House, either way he grew, House Velaryon were casting doubt upon Tommen's masculinity. Declaring for all the world to hear, that they believed him an incumbent omega. Naturally, Mother was furious. She raged and shouted at Father for agreeing to the caveat; insisting that Tommen was a sweet cub, but one that would grow into a fierce and proud lion. Mother was not fond of omegas. She disapproved of the way it allowed 'lowly' boys to raise far above their birth station.

She said nothing, whenever Tommen reminded her that he was a stag, not a lion.

"Lannister blood is strong, my sweet boy," she used to whisper, when she sat with him and brushed his golden curls, "And you will be an alpha, I know it."

Tommen wasn't so sure. With so many certain that it was not to be his fate, the youngest Prince had never truly been trained as lord. Oh, Father had sent him to Dragonstone at his lord Hand's suggestion. It was his seat since he was a baby. But his training was gentle, and not rigorous as a lord's would be. No one encouraged Prince Tommen to learn how to command a room, and ensure his men paid their taxes on time. They taught him to appease unruly bannermen, and soothe damaged egos, as an omega would.

Joffrey was always to be King, and so his place was the capital; King's Landing, the seat of the Seven Kingdoms. And what a seat it was. The cold and forbidding Iron Throne, with its awful, asymmetrical tilt, and winding steps of twisted, deformed metal. Joffrey had dared Tommen to sit upon it when they were small, but he never could. He had been too afraid to slip on those terrible steps and break his neck. He much preferred the cool black stone of Dragonstone's throne. It was wide enough to seat both him and Daenaera comfortably, and Tommen insisted she sit beside him, whenever he held court. They would rule properly together, one day.

"A wise choice, my lord," Ser Addam said, after the very first session when she had sat beside him. That was years ago now, but Tommen still remembered the proud look on his Lord Regent's face.

Ser Addam was not well-liked by the Crownlands lords, who were sworn to House Baratheon of Dragonstone.

"Why do they not listen to you?" Tommen had asked once, eternally confused how anyone could dislike the affable Ser Addam.

He was gallant, and brave, with a head of long, shining gold hair and a large smile. If Tommen did blossom as an omega, whilst he would be sad to let Daenaera go (for truly, she was his closest friend), he would not be displeased if he was wed to a man such as Ser Addam Marbrand. Tommen was glad indeed, whenever Ser Addam helped with his footwork or corrected his stance, when Ser Aston Celtigan, his master-at-arms, attempted to improve his sword work. But try as he might, Tommen never advanced much in the yard.

In his other studies, the young Prince fared far better. He learnt enough about Dragonstone and its attendant lords to realise for himself why they did not take kindly, to an outsider being named as Lord Regent, to the ruling island of Blackwater Bay. There were many who felt the position should have gone to Lord Velaryon. Just as there were many who felt Dragonstone should have remained Joffrey's, or even gone to one of Tommen's omega uncles, over him. At least Ser Stannis was battle-tested, they grumbled, when they did not think Tommen could hear.

It was one of the many reasons why he was eager to get back to Dragonstone. While they had been unsure of him at first, Tommen had gradually won his lords and ladies over. Father had insisted he remain on his island seat for six moons of each year, as soon as he was weaned. Mother hated it, and when Tommen was a babe, she remained by his side, wherever he was sent there. But when Tommen was old enough to ride a horse and begin swordwork, she no longer accompanied him. The Queen was too busy fussing over Joffrey, the Prince who was unquestionably an alpha, by then.

But Tommen did not mind. It was difficult, the first year Mother had waved him goodbye at the Harbour with the rest of the court. But he always had Ser Addam, and by then he was betrothed to Daenaera. And with her, came her younger sister Valaena, and cousin Monterys, who Tommen might marry instead, if Tommen was an omega and Monterys was not.

The court at Dragonstone, whilst darker and somewhat saltier than father's throne room, was nonetheless more welcoming. It was decorated in vibrant golden stag motifs, stunning against the black dragonglass, and Tommen's courtiers were always kind and respectful toward their little lord. They had seem him grow from babe to boy, and his most wonderful childhood memories had all taken place there. Playing games such as Monsters and Maidens with Daea, Val and Monty (as Tommen usually called them). They were often accompanied by Terrence Celtigar, Cassana Rykker and the Rambton brothers. Days were filled with adventure, even when they were confinded to lessons with Maester Gormon.

When they were older Terrence became a knight (being the eldest of them all). Tommen began to wistfully look back upon his childhood, with the knowledge that it had begun to slip away. Things would soon be expected of him, also. He would be asked the take the seat without Ser Addam at his side, and expected to rule with sound judgement and shrewd business acumen. Gone would be the days of half-years in King's Landing, where no one took him seriously, and he was expected to get out from underfoot. Soon, all at Dragonstone would be looking to him.

Far quicker than he cared for, Tommen was right. Father died, and so he was called back to King's Landing. There was unrest among the lords, and talks of treasonous uprising by House Stark. Tommen was very confused by that. Lord Stark had been his father's closest friend, and very kind indeed, when Father had brought him to Dragonstone. Father had been keen to show how his babe of a son was 'a better ruler of the dragon-infested island than the dragonspawn themselves'. It was the last time Tommen saw his father alive. The next time, he was lying on cold stone with painted pebbles upon his eyes, and Lord Stark had fled with Uncle Stannis, who they named for a traitor also.

Tommen was adrift without Daea. She had accompanied him for his stay in King's Landing, the last two years, along with her proud father. House Velaryron's ties to the Iron Throne were stronger than any other without the name Targayren, for they had been their loyal bannermen before the dragonriders left their stronghold in the Narrow Sea. Indeed, Aegon the Conqueror himself had a Velaryon mother. Traditionally, a Velaryon had almost always been the Master of Ships in the early years of the Targaryen dynasty. So often, that at times the office seemed hereditary. Close was the bond between the two Houses, for Targaryens had as much Valyrian blood as Velaryons did, seeing as the silver seahorses had fled the majesty of Valyria, before Daenys even had her famous dream.

After war broke out across the Seven Kingdoms in the wake of Father's death, Lord Aeron Velaryon had brought Daenaera to court, to be at his side. Tommen was glad of it, when there were reports of Stannis and Lord Stark's forces clashing against his Grandfather, Lord Tywin, and Uncle Jaime, who was of the Kingsguard. When Tommen asked why a man sworn to defend the King was leading a Lannister army, Mother told him to hush.

"He is defending the King, out on the battlefield where it matters, you little idiot," Joffrey snarled, and Tommen could say nothing, now that Joffrey was King.

But Uncle Jaime had been captured, not long after, and many at court were restless at the news. Some even disappeared in the night, fled back to their homes to defend them, should the need arise. Or else they did not wish to be in the Red Keep, when the Capital was invaded. Mother had given orders that the castle was to be sealed after a sizeable chunk of the court was gone, preventing any more abandonment by their supposedly loyal subjects.

She raged and cursed in their private apartments, about how Joffrey refused to exchange Mrycella for Lady Sansa, but now he _must_ see sense, to get Jaime and Mrycella back. Tommen was not willing to hold his breath waiting for it. His brother had never cared for the ties of family, and only heeded Mother because she spoilt and pitied him so, even though he had nothing to be pitied over. Mother saw insult and hardship where there was none, Tommen had come to realise, through his time with dealing with similarly stubborn, easily-offended lords.

It had come to be decided Tommen would wed Lady Daenaera in the Sept of Baelor, in half a year's time. Tommen felt sick to his stomach with nerves. He loved Daea, he was certain. But was it the love of a friend, or the love that produced healthy heirs? He thought her beautiful, certainly. But he was not ready to wed, and doubted half a year would make much difference. Not for the first time, Tommen missed his sister dreadfully.

After Daea herself, Myrcella was the one he confided in. They always had so much so converse about. Much happened between seeing one another for half of each year, and they advanced in many disciplines, in that time. Letters could not replace the sweet laughter and gentle hugs of his sister. Tommen prayed to the Maiden that Uncle Stannis was being kind to her. But Uncle Stannis was not an especially kind man. Still, he was an omega with children of his own, and they had played together sometimes. He would not harm his children's cousin, would he?

Tommen was no longer so sure what anyone was capable of, not when he heard the sniggers and whispers, and smallfolk called Joffrey a bastard in the street. But he kept his smile bright regardless, and found it was not so very difficult, when Daenaera was there to distract him. That night, they danced together many times, content in their own company. Before Joffrey sidled up to them, and demanded a new dance with his 'new sister'. As though Tommen's betrothal was new and fresh.

Joffrey had never expressed an interest in Daenaera before, and Tommen had been glad of it. Whenever he did encounter his brother's future wife, Joffrey had been quick to sneer at her. Poking fun at her unusual silver-gold hair and fey look. She exuded the blood of Old Valyria, and Tommen thought her very pretty indeed. Daea had always been dainty, and petite, where he had been plump and soft. Still, chasing Tommen's cats about had been good exercise for them both, and his frequent work with Ser Addam in the yard had done wonders to trim his form, as he grew.

Tommen fought the urge to fidget with his hands, as he watched Joffrey whisk his future bride away. Daea winced discreetly whenever the King stepped on her delicate toes.

"You look very handsome tonight, my Prince," came a timid voice at his side, and Tommen startled to realise Lady Sansa Stark was stood beside him.

He had stepped away from the other dancing couples without much thought as to where his feet took him. Now he found himself stood beside the disgraced daughter of their new enemies. Lady Sansa had always been demure and polite, the perfect lady. She wasn't as fun as Daea, and his other Dragonstone friends, but Tommen had always enjoyed her company nethertheless. Unlike most, Lady Sansa had never talked down to him, as though he was a simpleton.

Though Lady Sansa was dressed in a nice mint green wrap-tied gown with long sleeves, the current fashion of the Crownlands, Tommen noted that the stitching was frayed and the sleeves were too short. The sting ties were streched, her chest and shoulders too wide for its slim cut. The dress was too small for her, and yet she was wearing it to such an important ball. Tommen frowned, a sour taste upon his tongue as he tried to reason why. It was the kind of detail that Ser Addam always said was important. He longed to ask the man for his advice, but his Lord Regent was also his castellan, whenever he was obliged to leave his seat. But Ser Aston and Ser Barristan were nearby, and they were men Tommen trusted also. Later, he would confide his worries in them; once he could articulate what they were.

"Would you care to dance, my lady?" Tommen asked shyly. Lady Sansa was almost two heads taller than him, and he did not know that he would be graceful enough to lead her.

But she seemed most moved by his offer, a complicated look teasing at her mouth and the corners of her eyes. As though she were not sure whether to smile or weep. Tommen's heart leapt into his throat. He had not meant to upset her.

"My lady?" Tommen couldn't keep the alarm from his voice.

"I should like that very much, my Prince," Lady Sansa said thickly, smiling brightly at him. But Tommen was old enough to recognise a false smile. "No one has asked me this evening, and I do so love to dance."

She glanced at the other pairs, slowly rotating around the throne room. Her eyes were wistful, and utterly miserable. Tommen knew a lack of dancing alone was not enough to create that look. Was there news he had not privy to, about the war?

"No one?" said Tommen, astonished as she took his outstretched hand. Lady Sansa was to be Queen someday. Men should have been vying for the chance to tread the boards with her.

The feeling of unease within him grew, the sour taste becoming a foul tonic that slipped down his unwilling throat. Tommen knew Lady Sansa must be worried about her family. Her father was trying to ransom her back. But marriages were made for peace. Surely, Lord Stark would agree to a negotiation, and release Tommen's uncle, and convince Uncle Stannis to return Myrcella, once the confusion was cleared. Tommen knew Lord Stark wasn't capable of poisoning his father, but there would need to be a parley, at least, to speak the truth. But perhaps Mother was right. If Lady Sansa was unhappy with her betrothal, perhaps it was best if they swapped her for Myrcella and Uncle Jaime, and let her return to her family.

He smiled her brightly as they hopped from foot to foot, following the steps. The grateful upturn of her lips was not quite as wide as it should be, in genuine merriment, and Tommen resolved to improve that. He had often bought fabrics, furs and jewels as gifts for Daea to make dresses with. He was certain Lady Sansa would appreciate the chance to make herself some new dresses. Tommen couldn't provide jewels and furs; those were gifts for his future wife alone. But he was certain he could pick out a few nice fabrics, that would being a true smile to Lady Sansa's pretty face.


	7. Ramsay II

Ramsay had never anticipated that Mother would ever want to leave him. He had scant memories of Father; rough-hewn but gentle hands over his own, directing Ramsay's aim with the bow, and a high, sweet singing voice as Domeric trilled with his harp. A subdued smile and the faint memory of being lifted high up into the air to settle onto the man's shoulders. They were fond memories, he supposed, but hazy around the edges, like trying to see into the far distance on a misty day. But Ramsay had never felt lonesome, even growing up in practical isolation at the Dreadfort, with no other highborn children to interact with. He had always had his Mother to run to, when in distress and in need of comfort, or in order to boast at some new feat he had accomplished. Mother was always generous with his praise, unlike Grandfather, who rarely seemed to address his heir, unless in some form of admonishment.

Ramsay had always been comfortably complacent and content with his place in the world. He'd never expected much great upheaval. The war on the horizon had come as a shock, so sheltered was he from the political machinations of the South. His life had been ordered and clear; he would grow into maturity, marry the daughter of one of Grandfather's bannermen, and inherit his seat upon Roose's death. Mother always inhabited some vague shadow in the background, doting on his future babes and providing advice on restless bannermen. All secure and safe and easy.

It was a horrible jolt to have that secure ground pulled out from underneath his feet, like a carpet ripped loose.

"I've heard nasty lies," Ramsay began his interrogation with more of a whine to his voice than intended.

"Hmm?" said Mother, distracted, busy rooting around his chest of clothing, "To what end, sweetling?"

Ramsay gnashed his teeth together at the endearment. It made him feel too much a boy to be termed so, which Mother well knew. Still, he did not protest.

"They're saying Robb Stark has his eye on you," Ramsay moaned, "That you've consented to marry him."

Abruptly, Mother ceased his fussing about and stood rigid and still.

"But I know it's nought but rumour," said Ramsay valiantly, "Because I know you would have told me, were you planning on leaving me. I know my honest Mother wouldn't keep such a thing from me. Wouldn't want to abandon his only son."

Mother sighed heavily, and Ramsay felt the unease in his gut churning frothily, threatening to spew into rage at the deception. That his mother would go behind his back and arrange a new match for himself was a thing unheard of. Ramsay could barely comprehend the thought of his mother behaving in such a secretive, underhand manner. Not when Ramsay had always been included in Theon's schemes thus far.

With a look of mild trepidation, Theon crossed the room to stand before Ramsay. Achingly gentle, he reached out and took both of Ramsay's hands into his own loosely.

"Dearheart," Theon began, "I did not plan for this. Robb Stark is young and impulsive, and the forefront of all Northern attention, being the new Warden with the rumours of Ned Stark's death."

"So it _is_ true?" Ramsay pressed, relentless.

Mother squeezed his hands, and nodded once, a short sharp movement.

"But I had no knowledge of the boy's plan beforehand," Mother claimed, "As I said, the boy is impulsive. He did not want to be trapped into a betrothal pact with the Freys. He used the excuse of a previous attachment, blessed by the old gods with dowries and the like already determined, to wriggle out from Walder Frey's thumb. The old man is a lecher with far too many ugly children to feed. I do not blame Robb Stark for preventing himself being tying into such a base House."

"Fine," said Ramsay, "I suppose I might have done the same. I'd not marry just any old hog or hound Grandfather paraded before me, neither. But why do all believe it's you he's attached to? You've not been prancing about Winterfell on his arm all summer, or the like."

"Old Walder wouldn't be satisfied with a mere declaration, according to Robb," Mother said with a sigh, "He insisted on knowing which House the Starks held in such regard, that they could not be spurned. You know as well as I - as Robb did in that moment - that nought but the scion of a Great House would do."

Ramsay grumbled and frowned, but he could not deny it was true. Robb Stark had been very clever indeed at that moment. For there was none amongst his bannermen who would not have felt compelled to break off a betrothal, no matter how personally irked and offended they night be. Not if it would aid their commander in moving the army quickly Southward to Lord Eddard, if he still lived. There could have been no better choice than Theon Greyjoy, who brought the might of the Iron Fleet with him, reluctant though Balon had been to parley with them. A Great House could not be spurned without consequence, which even the infamously irascible Lord Walder would understand.

"Besides," said Theon, "The affection between us is well known. The ravens oft flying between Winterfell and the Dreadfort were commented upon, when Robb was dividing his army into divisions of command. Lord Umber was rather insistent that Robb's affection was unfairly slanted toward our House. As you might well recall, he commented so, after you removed two of his fingers, and Robb did nothing to reprimand you."

"He has no right to, regardless," Ramsay frowned.

With a chuckle, Mother released one of his hands, to brush it through the unruly flop of hair at the front of Ramsay's forehead.

"You know that is an untruth," he reminded him gently, "Robb is Lord of Winterfell with his father gone or dead. He can impose his law upon any in the North, and you did attack a man not baring steel against you."

Ramsay snorted in disgust.

"I gave him fair warning," he insisted.

"So you did, my love," Mother murmured, smoothing down his hair once more, before pressing a soft kiss to Ramsay's smudged cheek.

He'd been practising his swordplay before the men's gossip-mongering had distracted him enough to seek out the truth. He was still dirty from the exercise. And now, despite Mother's reassurances, Ramsay did not quite feel the matter was settled.

"If it's just a ruse, why are the men asking if there might be a wedding at Riverrun, to secure Robb an heir?"

For a moment, Mother went tight-lipped, a familiar expression Ramsay had seen when Grandfather was being particularly grating on Mother's nerves.

"There are Freys in the army now," Mother warned him, "So we must all mind what we say. Robb cannot make it known it is all a ruse. We must proceed as though we are truly betrothed, and in all manner of ways Robb will have to show me the respect and affection due the relationship supposed between us."

"He already favours you," Ramsay grumbled, a little sore at it.

Before the banners had been called, Ramsay had never seen his mother japing and given cause to laugh, other than with him. It was unsettling to know there were others who could cause Mother to smile with affectionate abandon. Ramsay was not entirely sure he approved of it. Mother's japing and adoring looks should be for him. No one else had earned them.

"He shan't be kissing you," Ramsay voiced with authority, "Nor clasping your hand and calling you sweet names. I won't allow it."

Theon chuckled.

"I don't propose you attempt to waylay him, should you see such a thing," he said, "But I doubt Robb would dare attempt such, regardless. He knows as well as I, I have no intention of wedding again, unless it is my own invention. I am quite content as the Lady of the Dreadfort. I have no interest in vying for popularity in Winterfell, under the scrutiny of the Northern lords and the sour Lady Catelyn. Can you imagine trying to wrest control of the household affairs from such a puckered harridan?"

Mother shuddered theatrically, and Ramsay smirked. They were on familiar footing now, poking fun at the other lords and ladies of the North. Mother held equal disdain for all of them. Except, it seemed, for Robb Stark. The only one who Theon seemed content to humour, and acquiesce to his schemes, despite the liberties the younger man dared to take with his person and reputation.

Ramsay resolved to think of a way in which Mother would be able to claim Robb Stark was too much of a disgrace to wed. He would not have any man claim his Mother was not good enough, or have his reputation maligned. No man could dare to disgrace his Mother and live to tell of it. Not while Ramsay breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read, please consider reviewing! Comments are much appreciated! <3


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